


The Talisman

by Misdemeanor1331



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Horror, Magical Artifacts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-23 17:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12512224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331
Summary: Hermione has wanted to explore the basement of Malfoy Manor for months. It’s mostly just old furniture and dusty portraits, but there’s one anomaly: a polished wooden box containing a talisman with the power to ruin her life.





	The Talisman

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt was #26 - Hermione finds a beautiful and ornate talisman buried in a box in the Malfoy basement. A few days later she starts feeling… off. Why?
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful beta, dormiensa, for the quick turnaround!

  **The Talisman**

“Even I don’t know what’s down there,” Draco snapped.

Hermione paused to look at her husband, a forkful of chicken raised halfway to her mouth. It was probably too late to avoid the impending argument, variations of which had occurred with some regularity over the past two weeks, but she had to try. She had enjoyed their occasional sparring while dating, but they hadn’t lived together then. Arguing when married, even in a house as large as Malfoy Manor, was much less entertaining.

“I didn’t ask – ” she began mildly.

“Why else would you want to see the manor’s ledgers?” he interrupted, deadpan.

Hermione fought a grimace; he knew her too well.

“I don’t understand why you’re so drawn to it,” he continued, stabbing at his green beans. “You have an entire bloody library at your disposal. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“Of course it is, I just – ” She trailed off, frustrated. What new explanation could she give? She was curious by nature, and the basement of Malfoy Manor was a potential treasure trove of Dark artefacts and magical arcana. It was also the only area of her new home she had yet to explore. “If you had free reign in the Department of Mysteries, would you limit yourself to the Common Mysteries? No,” she answered for him after a second’s pause. “You’d head straight toward the Greater Mysteries without a backwards glance.”

“There are no _greater mysteries_ in the basement,” Draco groused. “Those are all in the vault.”

“Then there should be no problem.”

“What are you expecting to find? It’s just unfashionable furniture and unwanted gifts Mother was too polite to throw away. No Malfoy has been down there for decades.”

“I’m not a Malfoy,” she said, pointing her speared chicken at him. “I’m a _Granger-Malfoy_.”

Their eyes met across the table. Draco scowled, but beneath his sour expression, Hermione saw him soften. As much as he liked to pretend otherwise, Draco’s iron will occasionally bent for her. And she made sure his sacrifice was worth it.

“It gives me the creeps,” he finally admitted.

“I’m not asking you to go.”

“And I’m not sending you down there alone.” She waited, and after a moment, he sighed, casting his eyes to the ceiling in defeat. “ _Fine_. We’ll go down together.”

Hermione smiled and reached across the table to squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”

He grumbled a reluctant, “You’re welcome. And next time you want to visit an exotic locale, might I suggest Fiji?”

“Next time, Fiji,” she promised. And, as he still looked disgruntled, added: “I love you.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You’d better.” 

* * *

The following Saturday, Hermione followed Draco into the manor’s basement. The temperature dropped perceptibly as they descended the steep staircase, the mid-October weather exacerbating the chill.

“How deep does this go?” she asked, ducking her head to avoid an outcropping of the low, uneven stone ceiling.

“A few dozen feet,” he answered with a shrug.

“Who constructed it?”

An over-the-shoulder glance told her that that was a silly question. Few records had been kept regarding the manor’s creation centuries ago. A Malfoy had indeed overseen the architecture and construction, but all documents detailing its original floor plans, designs, and costs had been lost (or destroyed, Hermione privately believed) shortly after its completion. The labor used to build the manor had likewise been silenced; Hermione didn’t like to think about how.

Dim sconces flared to life when they reached the basement landing, and though the light did not extend more than a few away from the walls, it was enough to reveal the basement’s immensity. Aisle upon aisle of unused furnishings – sofas, bookshelves, pianos, tables, vases, bed frames, portraits, trunks, potions equipment, wardrobes – spread out before them like a hedge maze, standing taller than Draco’s head in some places and collapsed onto the neighboring aisle in others. The musty smell of disuse gave her the beginnings of nausea.

They ambled into the clutter together, and at the first fork, Hermione released Draco’s hand and gave him a grin. “Send up red sparks if you get into trouble.”

He rolled her eyes at the reference to their First Year detention and started down the left fork. She took the right.

She walked for about ten minutes and found that Draco’s assessment of the basement had been accurate: aside from what she swore was a lost Rembrandt, there was not much to see. As she turned to head back to the staircase, a flash of light caught her eye. It felt so out of place in the basement’s near darkness that Hermione wondered if she had imagined it.

But as she approached, her wandlight was once again reflected from the bottom-most shelf of a bookcase. She knelt and moved aside a few water-stained paperbacks to reveal a box. It was simple and unadorned, with a brass swing-latch and matching hinges. But its cherry wood surface shone as if it had been polished days ago which was odd. Dust-repelling charms weren’t complicated, but no other item in the basement seemed to have earned the honor. What made this piece different?

She glanced over her shoulder and saw Draco’s wandlight to her left, maybe two or three aisles away. He had made her promise not to do anything foolish as she wandered and to call him at the first sign of intrigue. She looked back at the box and felt a fleeting guilt. While she had promised, he hadn’t defined _foolish_ or _intrigue_ , and opening a simple box might not count as either.

Behavior thus justified, Hermione tensed and turned away as she swung the latch and cracked the lid, ready for catastrophe. But none came. There was no explosion of light or sound, no foreboding susurrus or cold breeze at her back. The box was entirely mundane, and inside it, resting upon a bed of red silk, lay a circular piece of polished jet about the size of her palm. When she tilted the box, she saw the stone was cut through by veins of dark purple amethyst and navy sapphire. Inlaid around the talisman’s circumference were small inscriptions. Latin, maybe? She held her wand close, but it was hard to get the angle right with the cumbersome box.

Instinctively, she reached out for the stone. It warmed instantly at her touch. 

* * *

“Hermione!”

She startled at the shout, blinking as if waking from a trance. She looked down and was surprised to see the jet talisman in one hand and her unlit wand in the other. Her heart skipped a beat. How long had she been sitting here?

Draco shouted her name again, closer this time, and Hermione scurried into motion. She dropped the stone back into its box, closed and latched the lid, and shoved it back onto the shelf, hiding it under a moth-eaten wig. She dusted herself off as she stood and, by the time Draco turned the corner into her aisle, the bookshelf was far behind her. She schooled her features into what she hoped was a polite, inquiring expression.

Draco hung back, staring at her as though she were a stranger.

“You okay?” His wand twitched at his side.

Her eyes flicked up to his. She stretched her smile. “Of course.”

“I lost your light.”

“Oh.”

Draco shifted as silence hung between them, and Hermione saw him readjust his grip on his wand. Her own fingers tightened as a steel certainty settled in her chest: if it came to a duel, she would win.

“What did you find?”

“Nothing. You?”

He studied her a moment longer, then stowed his wand in the holster at his hip. “Nothing.” He reached a hand toward her. “Let’s go upstairs. I’m starved.”

She didn’t want to go upstairs. She didn’t want to be anywhere near him, in fact. She wanted _out_. But the longer she stared at him, arms still at her sides, the more perplexed his expression became. His eyes flickered behind her again, and she shifted her weight to the side, subtly positioning her body between him and the bookshelf.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I already answered that.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Humor me.”

She felt a flicker of annoyance but maintained a level tone as she repeated, “I’m fine.”

He stared at her a moment longer, then nodded. He closed the distance between them in three steps, and it took everything in her not to back away from him. He offered her his arm.

“Shall we?”

As she looked into his eyes, she began to panic. How had she been so blind? For years, she’d suspected it, growing like a cancer in her bones, but now, with his questions and mistrust, she knew.

Draco didn’t love her.

The betrayal cut deep, but the truth brought no sadness with it. Instead, she was angry. She had no one to blame but herself for her current situation – trapped in this life, in his house, at his command, his bloody _wife_. He had only ever wanted to possess her. To control her.

But she was not a woman to be owned, and it wasn’t too late to change her circumstances.

Escape wouldn’t be easy. She needed a plan, and she needed to be careful. Draco would never let her go willingly, so until she was ready, she needed to pretend. She needed to act like nothing had changed. Like she loved him, loved their life, and would never leave him.

Against every instinct, Hermione looped her arm through his. 

* * *

The next day, a feeling like anticipation hummed throughout the manor. Maybe it was a product of her Firecall to Gringotts confirming that her financials were in order. Perhaps it was the owl sent to a discreet realtor in wizarding London regarding flats to let. Whatever the reason, she felt energized. And though her future was far from settled, Hermione couldn’t help but think about it. How good it would feel to be out of this oppressive old place, with its tall ceilings and fine china, and into somewhere that felt like home, with old lamps and worn-in furniture. How she wouldn’t have to worry about being watched or questioned and could go where she wanted, when she wanted, without answering to anyone but herself.

She was flipping through the _Daily Prophet_ ’s classifieds section when Draco joined her at the lunch table. He cleared his throat, clearly expecting a greeting.

“Hi,” she said, obliging him.

“Have a good morning?”

“It’s been fine,” she answered with a shrug. “You?”

“Quite.”

His tone drew her eyes away from the paper. Something had shifted in him, and she tried to place the change. Pointed chin, thin brows, pale skin – he looked the same. Except for his mouth, which was drawn in a curious smirk that reminded her unpleasantly of Hogwarts. And his eyes, as hard and dull as brushed steel. A chill crawled down her spine, and she shivered involuntarily.

“Cold?” he asked. It sounded like a challenge.

She shrugged again, maybe too casual. “A little.”

Draco drew his wand and cast, as quick as a striking snake. She flinched away, trying in vain to dodge the warming charm that settled harmlessly over her skin. Sweat that had nothing to do with the charm’s effect prickled under her arms, and she watched with wide eyes as Draco stowed his wand and quirked his head to the side.

“Did I frighten you?”

She squared her shoulders and stood. “It’s rude to charm someone without their permission,” she snapped.

“I’m your husband – I don’t need permission.”

Hermione lifted her chin in defiance even as her gut clenched with fear. Any doubt she’d harbored about him vanished, and a new, horrifying question crossed her consciousness.

How far would Draco go to keep her here? 

* * *

The moment Hermione stepped out of the Floo and onto the dark wood floors of the Ministry’s Atrium, she collapsed. Pain like long slivers of hot iron crosscut her skull, and she curled in on herself, eyes filling with agonized tears.

Draco stepped from the fireplace seconds later and immediately knelt beside her. His hands crawled up and down her body like pale spiders, probing for injury.

“Get away,” she moaned, trying to pivot out of his reach.

“We need to get you back to the manor.”

Hermione clenched her jaw as Draco hefted her to her feet and maneuvered her into the Floo, his arms caging her to him. And when they landed Malfoy Manor and the pain disappeared, it clicked.

 _A cage_.

Draco’s desire to control her ran deeper than compliance. He wanted to isolate her. To cut her off from the outside world and make it so the manor was her only refuge, and he her only friend.

But Draco had forgotten: she already had friends. Two of them, the best a woman could ask for. Harry and Ron would understand her situation. They would believe her. But most importantly, they would help.

* * *

Hermione passed Draco’s study on the way to the owlery, her third visit of the day, desperate for word back from Harry and Ron. His voice carried into the hallway, and she stopped dead when he asked, “What letters?”

She pressed herself against the wall beside the door and bit her lip to keep from swearing as the fire popped twice.

“ _Those_ letters,” said Ron.

“What does she mean, _escape_?” asked Harry.

Her heart plummeted into her stomach. What were they _doing_?

Draco sighed. “Hermione’s… She hasn’t been well over the past few days.”

“We want to see her.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Potter.”

“She’s sick.”

“She’s more than sick,” Ron snapped.

“Watch it, Weasley,” Draco said, his voice full of warning.

“You want to tell me I’m wrong?” Ron pressed. “We don’t see her for days, she skips work without letting anybody know, and then we get whatever these letters are supposed to be. Does that sound like the flu to you?”

Heavy silence descended, broken when Harry asked, “Did you hurt her?”

A log exploded; Ron swore.

“I’d never,” Draco hissed. “I love her.”

“Have…” Harry hesitated, like he didn’t want to complete his thought. Hermione’s heart broke when he did. “Have you contacted St. Mungo’s? Maybe the stress from work, or from moving… A lot’s changed for her.”

Draco’s reply was quiet. “Not yet.”

“Will you?”

“I don’t think I’ll have much choice soon.”

She could hear the frown in Harry’s voice. “Keep us posted.”

“I will.”

“And if you _have_ hurt her, Malfoy – ”

The Floo extinguished before Ron could finish his threat.

Hermione rested her head against the wall, a few tears trailing down her cheeks. With Harry and Ron on his side, Draco had all but won. She was alone and friendless but still had one resource he couldn’t take from her.

Hermione rested her palm on the handle of her wand, tucked into its hip holster, and took a deep, shuddering breath. If she wanted to escape, she would have to do it alone. 

* * *

Samhain at dusk. A shade falling over the world as the veil between it and what lay beyond lifted. It seemed fitting for it all to end tonight, a mere two weeks after it began, though it felt like longer.

She had studied Draco for days, Disillusioning herself and lurking in the shadows, timing his departures and arrivals to the second. There was no room for error tonight. No space for uncertainty or hesitation.

When the fire in the fireplace flared jade green, she struck, lunging forward and whipping her wand across the space where he should have appeared. The back of the hearth exploded in a shower of hot stone, and she staggered back as a spell collided with her midsection, leaving her gasping. A second spell left her paralyzed.

Draco appeared from the smoke, stowing his wand in his hip holster. She teetered, and he caught her as she fell, guiding her gently down onto his lap.

He smiled at her and shook his head, disappointed, but not surprised.

Because he’d known.

“It’s safe now,” he called over his shoulder. The Floo hissed twice, and Hermione saw the distinctive green-hemmed robes of St. Mungo’s Healers out of her peripheral vision.

“Psychosis,” one offered after a glance, glib and careless. “Maybe schizophrenia.”

Draco brushed Hermione’s hair out of her face, his cold fingers trailing goosebumps across her skin. “Is there a cure?”

“We’ll consider all options,” the second Healer hedged.

“I couldn’t help her.” He looked up helplessly at the two Healers, voice thick with repressed emotion. “She was paranoid and had episodes… I was afraid she might become violent.”

“It looks like you were right to worry,” said the first Healer.

“We’ll take good care of her,” the second one said quickly, placing a comforting hand on Draco’s shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing.”

He nodded and sniffed, sweeping at his eyes with the sleeve of his robe.

“Can we have a moment?”

The green hems swayed out of view. Once Draco was sure they were out of earshot, he let the mask drop, his tears and grief disappearing. He leaned down close to her, his nose just inches from hers.

“I found the talisman,” he whispered, a twisted excitement writhing through his words and sending Hermione’s heart thudding against her ribcage. “I went back the morning after. I don’t know what it’s doing in the basement; it should be in the vault, all things considered. But it wasn’t, and now… Well, here we are.

“Do you know what it does?” He lifted one of her curls, twining it around his fingers. “I thought you might have figured it out. I’ll admit, I looked at the ledgers. Had to go back a few centuries to find the right record, but the search was worth it.

“You, my darling wife, found the Font of Fear. A single touch, and your fears are made manifest. And a very interesting fear you have. I know you don’t like to be told what to do, but your fear of being trapped and controlled ran deeper than I ever expected. And now it’s real: you can’t leave the manor without feeling excruciating pain.”

She trembled; the Full Body-Bind was weakening.

“The Healers will realize this the minute they remove you from the grounds,” he continued. “I’ll accompany them, of course, and when you begin to scream, I’ll take you right back here myself. They’ll give you their best guess at a diagnosis, and then the changes will start. We’ll confiscate your wand first, and I’ll pay them an absurd amount of money to set up an in-home care center for you. A nice, safe room, with unbreakable windows, unshatterable mirrors, and untieable bedsheets. Aside from a few obvious exceptions, you’ll be given everything else you could ever want – food, entertainment, companionship.” He smiled at her and once again trailed his fingers down her cheek. “And you’ll stay with me. In some capacity, at least.”

“Don’t.” The plea was barely audible, a quiet noise at the front of her mouth. But Draco understood her perfectly.

“That’s not an option, dearest. Because do you know what my fear is?” He leaned in closer, so that his lips brushed her ear. “ _Loss_ ,” he whispered, backing away again so that their eyes could meet. He looked excited, as if he had shared a valuable secret.

“I can’t let you go,” he explained. “It might actually kill me. And it’s almost perfect, in a way: you can’t leave, and I can’t let you. Now,” he leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss upon her lips, “doesn’t that sound like fate?”

 

**The End**


End file.
